


Challenge

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Bondage, Bruise Fetish, Community: camelot_fleet, Community: kinkme_merlin, Future Fic, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-21
Updated: 2009-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys with swords get bruised and sweaty and a little kinky. What, you expected plot?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> Written at Mia's request for the kinkme_merlin prompt [Arthur/Lancelot, Lancelot tied to the bed while Arthur rides him](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/1108.html?thread=301140#t301140). Vague hints of Arthur/Lancelot/Merlin at the end, but it doesn't really go there.

The door's barely shut before Arthur's pushing forward and pinning Lancelot against the edge of the table. Their armor clashes, a bright sound, counterpoint to the harsh breaths mingling between them. In his current state, Arthur thinks he could force dents into metal with his fingertips. With a grunt of frustration he steps back and begins to tear at the buckles of his own iron cage. It's too hot up here in his rooms; there's no _air_.

Lancelot comes to the rescue, ripping his own gloves off with his teeth before attacking Arthur's buckles the way he attacked Arthur himself in training, when he flew forward like a wave against the rocks, battering again and again and leaving Arthur so damn sore and elated, energized, shaking with the need to push just that much further. No one ever reaches those heights with him anymore, no one else has pushed him this hard in years. His fingers feel clumsy and thick as he peels his own gloves off and fumbles with the fastening at Lancelot's neck. His sweaty, distracting neck, but Arthur will not be sidetracked.

When the pieces finally begin to come apart, he drops them gently to the floor (gently because their lives depend on these things, the floor because the table is too far to think about reaching now). Lancelot does the same with his, though a bit more reverently. And then they're helping each other ease off the mail tunics, careful not to catch on one another's hair.

Finally they're down to just cloth and Arthur grabs a handful of that familiar white undershirt, pulls Lancelot off-balance to stumble into his chest palms-out, and kisses him. It's messy and too hard, but he doesn't care. Doesn't care when Lancelot slides a hand up and around to cradle his head, tilting him to a better angle. Doesn't care because that's Lancelot's tongue braving the clash of teeth to ease into his mouth, and Arthur is sucking on it and thinking _now now now_.

The rest of their clothing is easy, except when Arthur stumbles pulling off Lancelot's boots and curses in frustration. Finally naked, they dive together onto the bed as if it were another challenge, to see if they can snap the ropes that hold up the mattress. They've done it once before and didn't even care until after.

Arthur bites up Lancelot's side from hip to the point of his shoulder, finding bruises that weren't there yesterday, finding sore places that won't be bruises until tomorrow. He fingers them lightly just to watch Lancelot squirm and his eyes darken.

Lancelot unerringly finds Arthur's bruises, too, both the ones from the swords and the ones from fingers gripping his hips too tightly. Arthur hisses and digs his nails into Lancelot's shoulders. He's so hard he can't think. He needs-

And then Lancelot slides his own hands up over his head, crossing his wrists, and Arthur forgets to breathe.

He has to close his eyes to collect himself (the rope is in that drawer, the salve over there) and keeps them closed as he rolls off. He can't look or he won't remember (check that the bottle has enough for two rounds - no, three). Won't be able to concentrate (the rope goes under and around, makes a loop, slides over the wrist - check the tightness with one finger).

Arthur dares to look once he's done, and Lancelot's eyes are so hooded, so far gone already that he can't help but dive down for a kiss, framing the stubbled cheeks with both hands. Lancelot's mouth is soft, wet, and open. It makes Arthur's cock twitch. He quiets it by rubbing against Lancelot's hip, two long, slow body rolls that leave him blooming with sweat and scrambling up to find the salve.

He gets the bottle open and pours thick stuff on his fingers (the smell alone makes him ache now), and then he's arching back and sliding in one finger, easy because he wants it so badly right now. Two fingers, three, and there he has to pause long enough to breathe, to let himself consciously relax, knowing Lancelot's watching for any hint of pain. There's still an echoing ache from two nights ago, but he pushes past it and feels his body slowly heat up inside, even more slowly relax.

Then he pulls out, feeling himself clench around nothing and relax again, the light throb of his pulse beating in the stretched muscle. He slathers Lancelot's cock quickly and kneels up.

Lancelot's watching with glittering eyes and red mouth, his hands twisting aimlessly in the rope, not trying to pull away, just restless. He's breathing almost as hard as Arthur, and there's a moment when Arthur is tempted to keep them both like this, suspended in _want_, sucking it in with every frantic inhale.

Then he braces one hand on Lancelot's shoulder, grips his cock with the other, and _pushes_.

It's not easy, it's never easy, but he takes it a little at a time, toes curling and belly trembling as soft sounds come out of his mouth that he can't quite recognize as himself. Lancelot's eyes are wide now, his face slack, and Arthur concentrates on that instead of the pressure and the stretching, always at the very edge of what he can take.

And then he's past the hardest part, sliding down slowly until his arse is cradled by Lancelot's hips. Shivering, he curls down so he can rest his chin in the crook between Lancelot's arm and neck.

The violence between them has mutated into something shuddery that matches Lancelot's soft but emphatic curses. Arthur wants to laugh, but he thinks he might break. Instead he just shifts forward and presses back again, working his hips in small circles in between shallow thrusts. He feels Lancelot's mouth brush open across his jaw and latch on, sucking up another bruise to go with all the others. Arthur relaxes and lets it happen, offers up his throat for the next one, all the while shifting up and down in longer and longer glides until he's really fucking - strong, smooth strokes that push the air out of his lungs in a slow hiss.

"Fuck," pants Lancelot, and Arthur agrees. He feels like he's run a league in full armor, chasing something he can't even see. He wants to lean back, _fuck_ he wants it, but he knows it's a kind of surrender, an admission that he wants this to end. He's not ready to give it up, despite the ache and tremble in his thighs. He won't be the first to admit he can't go on.

Then Lancelot bends his knees and plants both feet on the bed, offering, and Arthur just snaps and takes it, arches his back until his shoulders are braced on Lancelot's knees and _pounds_ down, gasping, sweat dripping down his face, hands dangling uselessly at his sides. He's not even sure what he wants now, just more, always more more more. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his body feels overheated, tingling.

"Arthur," Lancelot gasps, "now." He drops his knees a handspan and Arthur falls with them.

The jolt sets off a spark, colored by disbelief. Arthur feels his body start to shake and clench, curling in on himself as the pleasure bounces out to his palms and the soles of his feet then ricochets back to his groin, tightening in sweet, staccato bursts so intense he feels his whole body jerk with each one. The cock inside him grinds against the same spot every time he twitches, sending him off with another desperate cry over and over until he feels wrung out, his muscles weak as water.

Then he's falling back with a gasp to lie limp across Lancelot's knees like an offering to some obscene god. He can't make himself move, not even to pull off the hard length still inside him. There's stickiness on his belly, dribbling down his groin. Fuck, Lancelot's probably covered in it. Arthur opens one eye to check.

He is, three distinct lines of white splatter travelling up his belly, drawing Arthur's gaze helplessly up to his chest to the brown nipples standing out beneath the wiry hair, and further up to his neck and cheeks, flushed dark and shining with sweat. His head's thrown back, the tendons of his neck taut, and Arthur can't leave him like this, can't refuse this final challenge.

With a deep groan he pulls himself up, tipping forward onto hands and knees. _Oh_ he's sore, but Lancelot's shout is like water in a desert, pouring onto his parched ears. Wobbling, he rocks back and forth, clenching down with his arse, which seems to cling to the cockhead sliding inside him anyway. He wants to force more of those sounds out of Lancelot's furiously working throat, wants to see him come apart. Arthur watches the adam's apple beneath him bob and bites at it, setting bare teeth to skin but not pushing down, not really. It works, though, because suddenly Lancelot's breathing is frantic and his hips are rolling and then Arthur feels the cock inside him jerk hard, several times. He drops his shoulders and rides it out, panting, face pressed to the mess on Lancelot's chest.

He manages a few more soft rolls with his hips before groaning and pulling off. He can feel his arse leaking already, loose and swollen. He doesn't reach back to check; he knows what it feels like, on himself and on Lancelot. Knows it with eyes and fingers and tongue, and really all he wants right now is to grab the long tail of rope on the pillow and _pull_, watching everything unravel and Lancelot's muscles bulge as he pulls himself free and reaches down.

Arthur lets himself be reeled in and kissed, soft and thorough. Lancelot's arms are shaking, so Arthur rubs them, checking his fingers by licking over each one. It seems to work well enough, because soon Lancelot is pinning them to his chest and saying, "Enough! Please, Sire."

So Arthur stops, if only so Lancelot will go back to _Arthur_. It sounds better in his mouth.

Honestly, he's exhausted and drifting already, overwarm and sticky but too tired to complain. A tiny part of his mind is worried about his armor on the floor, but Merlin will be up with supper in a couple of hours and will probably pick it all up, whinging the whole time loud enough to wake them both. Then Arthur will wrestle him to bed and they will take their revenge until Merlin is a whimpering wreck, and supper will go cold but no one will care.


End file.
